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John stared at her in covert wonder.
In every country of the Western world, bastards were forced to live in disgrace and isolation. They came into the world with no rights and eventually left it the same way. Born in shame was a polite euphemism. Or branded in Adam’s fall.
But Reina had taken the ill-starred life she’d been given and turned it into something else entirely. Instead of retreating to the margins of society, she’d made herself into someone they couldn’t ignore. And she’d done it alone.
“Whether or not you’re inconvenient,” he said quietly, “I know for certain you’re remarkable.”
Seeming embarrassed by the compliment, she averted her gaze and began to eat.
After ensuring everything was in order, John murmured, “With your permission, ma’am, I’ll withdraw.”
“Where will you go?” Reina asked.
“Just outside the door.”
“Is that what you’re supposed to do? Wait out there by yourself?”
“Aye, until you call for me to remove the dishes.”
“Won’t you find it boring?”
“No, ma’am.”
Reina looked perturbed. “I don’t see the point of standing in the hallway when you could do your thinking in here and be far more comfortable.”
“There’s no need to trouble yourself about my comfort, ma’am.”
“But there is. You’re my responsibility. You and everyone else who lives here.”
It rankled to be grouped with the other servants, as if he were yet another protégé or dependent. More than that, however, her comment struck at the central problem at Westbrook House.
“You have it backward, Miss Martin. I’m not your responsibility—you’re mine. My job is to look after you and put your needs first. But that can only happen if you’ll trust me to manage the situation. Will you try to do that?”
Reina nodded slowly. Her face had turned pink.
Realizing he was standing too close, John forced himself to take a step back. “Good. Now, is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”
Looking distracted, she replied, “There’s a bottle of wine on the sideboard . . .” One of her hands fluttered in the direction of an elaborately carved mahogany cabinet.
“Shall I pour a glass for you?”
Her color deepened. “Two glasses. If . . . if you wouldn’t mind joining me.”
Thrown off his guard by the invitation, John puzzled over how to reply.
From the moment he’d crossed the threshold of Westbrook House, nothing had gone as it should have. He’d known it wouldn’t be an ordinary situation. He’d been forewarned that Reina Martin was unconventional, but she didn’t appear to be defying convention so much as she was oblivious to it. Her radiant self-assurance was balanced by the awkwardness of a tourist who wasn’t altogether sure of the customs.
“Ma’am,” he asked, “have you ever heard the saying ‘No man is a hero to his valet’? ”
Reina shook her head.
“Hegel,” he said. “It could just as well apply to a butler who knows all the secrets and weaknesses of his master. Too much familiarity eventually makes the master feel as if he’s been cut down to his servant’s size. And that never bodes well for the servant.”
“Technically, you won’t be a butler until tomorrow morning,” Reina pointed out. “You’re not even supposed to be working right now. Today was only for you to meet everyone and settle in.” In a flash of inspiration, she suggested, “Let’s pretend we’re strangers who just met at a bookshop. Or standing in front of a display window at Winterborne’s department store, where I asked your opinion about a hat I was thinking of buying.”
More zigs and zags.
God help him, he was starting to enjoy this.
